Weary lag the traveller's feet ⁠On the mountain way;
Dark the path — the cruel sleet ⁠Dims the light of day.
The village buried from his view,
Where to his love he bade adieu, ⁠And heard her parting lay.

O she must wait his coming long, ⁠As swallows wait the spring!
Although her lips have framed the song ⁠To give him welcoming;
High on the mountain-path the storm
Has veiled in snow her lover's form, ⁠And she his dirge must sing.